


The Six of Jacks, the Two of Spades

by Zabbers



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Drabble Sequence, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-24
Updated: 2006-11-24
Packaged: 2019-05-03 03:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14559387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zabbers/pseuds/Zabbers
Summary: Jack, in Torchwood, before Abaddon.





	The Six of Jacks, the Two of Spades

Some nights, he's so tired he shoots himself for the five minutes' rest. He's so damned tired. He has a bed, well, cot, the blanket a familiar, scratchy brown thing. He lies down, closes his eyes. It's worse that way. He stares at the ceiling and sees electrified skeletons, bloody, rent flesh. So he gets up, disgusted by the placid grey cinderblocks. He can't work, his mind as full of alien, useless junk as the bunker. He walks. He paces. He patrols his Torchwood like the ghost he is. And then, when he still can't stand it, he shoots himself.

~ 

He knows it's perverse, the way he clings to that hand. The way he reacted when Carys smashed the specimen jar against the floor. How he cradled it, how he steals glances of it, now, amazed again, like the day it had fallen from the sky. It is one more thing his subordinates wonder about, chatter about when he leaves them alone, exchange glances under his nose about. Alone, he stares at it, watches every twitch, every sign of life. He strokes the glass softly, and inside, the fingers follow his movements. He's not sure why it matters so much.

~ 

A Webley's no sonic blaster, but it has a lot more class. It makes him feel... _safe_ isn't the right word because it doesn't matter for himself and no gun is enough for protecting his friends. Not in this line of work. But it's security. Insurance. It's a real thing, metal and rubber, bound to the planet by the forces that forged it, by the blood it's spilt, the bodies it's put in the dirt. With it, he's grounded, won't float away. It has weight in his hands, substance. A gun might malfunction, but it won't turn into a banana. 

~ 

He'd make them switch pizza places, but that would look suspicious. Besides, this is Cardiff, not New York, and despite the glut of 'kabob and pizza' joints, good pizza is damned hard to find. If they keep ordering from Italian Pizzeria, it'll make up for the girl, right? Right. They have great hours, and don't question the address anymore. They don't notice Torchwood was the last order the girl delivered. She shouldn't have been below, anyway--she's in the morgue, now, and in a week the body will be gone, just like the rest. He doesn't care where they go.

~ 

He used to be able to remember their names. The ones who died. He could recite them, like a litany, in his head. At night, not sleeping, they were his sheep, his Lord's Prayer. But there have been so many--it's been so long--was it Mary or Mariah whose heart was harvested? Andrew or Alex whose cell membranes dissolved? He can't be sure. He's terrified he'll lose count, forget, stop caring. Because when he doesn't feel, when he can't remember, and when Death is meaningless to him, what's to stop him from swatting them all like so many bugs?

~ 

Then there are the ones he knows he'll never forget. Estelle, drowned and gray and stiff on the cold ground of her own backyard. The cyberwoman in her stolen body, staggering from the impact of bullets to midriff, blood blooming on the white shirt, Ianto sobbing, sobbing. Michael, who didn't get his gas mask on in time at Ypres, Gordon who drowned on the Seawolf, Rob whose jet was AAWed over Vietnam. Maybe a dozen deaths seared into his memory. Suzie Costello backed into a corner, shooting herself rather than give up the resurrection glove. She died. He envies her.

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to Livejournal on the 24 November, 2006.


End file.
